She was fully alive to the situation. The pork butcher’s wife downstairs
had opened, like every one in Amiens who could manage it, an
eating-room. The particular public for which it catered were English and
French N.C.O.’s of garrison formations, not a field for high profit, but
respectable and regular. There was a back room. It was better than
courting trouble by going outside. She explained this to Skene as she
sat up, shivered slightly at the contact of the air, lit the candle, and
tidied herself. She was not ill at ease before him. Thorough in
everything, when she gave she knew no stint. She did not boggle over the
irregularity of their situation, any more than over her semi-nudity. Why
should she? She had perfect confidence in what she had done, just as in
her things, which were clean and good in quality, and in her body, which
was firm and fresh with health. Of course, out in the street the
conventions constrained one to dissemble, to conceal what one did, and
only to show as much of one’s skin as fashion allowed for the moment.
But with Skene she was as frank as she had been with herself, poured him
out clean water, and explained that with a small gratuity and a generous
order, Madame would make no scruple of their having the best time they
could. There were the French police to bribe, possibly, and worse still,
the English, but it could be managed.
She was proud of Skene when they interviewed Madame. He spoke French
with some fluency, and knew just how to flatter the old lady’s
sensibility and appeal to her greed. When they sat opposite each other
in the little back room, he turned on her eyes still bemused, and
looked at his watch with frank pleasure: “No train till six-thirty.
Still nearly twelve hours!” he said. Under the table she rubbed his
ankle with her slippered foot. Their little dinner ended, as, alas! all
dinners must. The pork butcher’s wife, overpaid and adroitly flattered,
rallied them, almost blessed them, as, his arm round her waist, her arm
round his neck, they mounted slowly the dark, narrow stairs.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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